


Shield

by playswithworms



Series: Protectobot Beginnings [13]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:25:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playswithworms/pseuds/playswithworms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Protectobots are caught up in the war far ahead of schedule, but how much will it cost them? First Aid pays the price for their first battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posting some older writings - this one was originally posted in January 2009.

That feeling was called panic, though Hot Spot had never experienced it before in his short life thus far. He didn't even have a name for it at the time, the awful, unthinking, spark-pounding horror that gripped him as he crawled over the broken ground to his brother. No. No. Oh no, please no. First Aid did not move, crumpled in a smoking red-and-white heap after the blast that jolted Defensor into five separate entities again. It had been First Aid's doing to take the brunt of it, a point blank disrupter cannon blast that would have otherwise blown the main base reactors. They had only been Defensor a few times, and Hot Spot was still learning to steer, so to speak, but he was fairly certain that had been First Aid's assessment of blast power and survival probabilities that had flashed through their collective mind. Hot Spot hadn't been at all prepared for his brother's sudden, stubborn determination that had swung Defensor's left arm directly into the line of fire.

Somehow, in all of his planning for his team, for every scenario of battle and rescue he could run through his processor, he had never, not even once, considered that First Aid might get hurt. He knew injuries to his team were not going to be completely avoidable, but in all of his hypothetical situations First Aid was there, still medically untrained, but nevertheless a well of instinctive knowledge and calm that they could all draw on, were any of them to be damaged. First Aid getting damaged was never part of the equation. They wouldn't let that happen. His processor hadn't even let him consider it. Hot Spot hadn't counted on First Aid taking matters into his own hands.

He was certain First Aid was dead, deactivated, in those first few terrible moments. Optics offline, limp, paint scorched and beginning to blister along his back and side from the blast. The gestalt bond was a buzz of white noise. He couldn't feel First Aid, he couldn't feel any of them, although he could see the other three were alive at least, stunned but beginning to stir.

The others joined him, Blades and Groove staggering, supporting Streetwise who couldn't seem to stand. The conflict roared around them, the cannon might even be aiming straight at them now, but they were beyond noticing such things. Hot Spot looked up at them, staring blankly, cradling First Aid as best he could with arms that didn't want to function. First Aid's optics flickered faintly, and they watched him, afraid to touch, frozen with hope and fear and numb shock, and the burning buzzing pain of the disrupter blast started to work its way through all of their joints and circuits.

Groove reached over, fumbling and awkward in a way Groove never was, and placed his hand over First Aid's chestplates to feel for his spark pulse. He shook his head after a moment and leaned over further to rest the whole side of his face against Aid's chest, pressing his auditory sensors close. He said something, but none of them could hear, and only then Hot Spot realized the battle was still full force around them. Jets screamed by close overhead, friend or foe, deafening. Hot Spot could feel Groove, distantly, trying to tell him something through their bond, but the constant buzz drowned it out. He tried regular comms and that worked better, although still wracked by bursts of static.

… _spark pulse…really weak, Hot Spot…not good…but it's there_.

Hot Spot nodded to let Groove know he got the signal, but he still couldn't organize his thoughts to do anything more. After awhile First Aid blinked and stirred a little, and Groove and Blades talked to him, held his hands, tried to get him to respond, but he did not seem to see or feel or hear them. His optics were unfocused but aware, his hands moved in theirs feebly, as if trying to feel out his surroundings, but he did not respond to their gentle squeezes.

_I think his entire sensory network is offline. He can't feel us_ , Groove commed, and Hot Spot felt a spear of grief and frustration pierce through the numb haze, that First Aid should be hurt and maybe dying and not know they were there.

Then First Aid twitched and arched like a bow, too agonized to even scream as all of his tactile sensors came abruptly online and his hands clutched at Hot Spot's armor and First Aid was clinging and making soft broken noises of pain and Hot Spot could only try to hold him in places that weren't hurt and sob himself in panic and helplessness. It seemed an eternity until he realized Groove was shouting at him, he could hear him now, and Blades was pulling at his fire coolant nozzle and he shakily set it to its lowest setting and Blades sprayed First Aid's back and side with the soothing, numbing spray. First Aid still clung tightly, hands gripping and relaxing and gripping again as the pain eased, air cycling harshly through his vents with a damaged, rasping sound.

"We need help," Streetwise coughed the words out painfully, from where he leaned heavily against Hot Spot's back. Something was not right with him too, and Hot Spot wished he could turn to see him better, but he couldn't let go of First Aid.

"Ok. Ok," Hot Spot said, finally starting to think again. Things were quieting down, the main battle had moved elsewhere, the huge cannon-bearing tank was gone. A few 'bots ran by in the distance. He didn't recognize them, but that was hardly surprising; they'd only been at the base for a quarter orn and their very existence was supposed to be under wraps. They'd really blown that one, he thought with a brief inner wince, but he'd worry about that later, if there was a later.

"Comms. Can anyone comm. Wheeljack?" If Wheeljack was still alive. He did not say that part. And Ratchet. Ratchet had been caught in the first explosion. First Aid had done his best to stabilize him before Wheeljack had arrived.

Groove and Blades shook their heads. "Just getting static."

"Blades, can you get airborne?"

Blades shook his head. "I can walk. I'll find help, just hang in there. I'll be back soon."

Groove nodded. "I'll keep an eye on them," he promised, and Blades staggered away at a limping half run, while Groove suddenly had his hands full stopping Streetwise from getting up. He seemed to have the sudden notion that he was going for help too. Groove made him lie down next to Hot Spot, and Streetwise stretched an arm over with a faint groan of pain to touch First Aid's face. First Aid sighed softly and seemed to relax a little more.

"How are you doin' Street," Hot Spot asked him in concern, and his spark eased a little as Streetwise managed to give him a faint semblance of his usual crooked half grin.

"Don't worry, I'm still in here…somewhere. How 'bout you?" Streetwise asked, his normally smooth voice rasping and hoarse.

"I'm ok," Hot Spot answered, although his body was starting to tell him, insistently now that he had a klik to spare for it, that every circuit and strut was fried, and every tiny movement shot jolts of pain directly to his processor.

Groove touched one of the panels on First Aid's arm uncertainly, with a hand that shook slightly. Hot Spot was humbly grateful that Groove and Blades had kept their heads, even when he had lost his, but he could also tell Groove was rattled to the core. They all were. "I know Ratchet stocked him up with basic supplies. I could try to find some painkillers, something for the shock, but I don't know the right dose. I'm afraid I'll do more harm than good."

"This seems to be helping," Hot Spot murmured, giving First Aid another light spray of coolant and hoping it wasn't doing more damage, but what else could they do?

Groove nodded. "First aid training. When this is over."

It took Hot Spot a moment to figure out what Groove meant, but then he nodded as well. "Definitely."

First Aid tensed and arched weakly for a moment, with a short cry of pain as some internal spasm wracked him, and then subsided against Hot Spot again, panting short and rapid. Groove rested one hand on First Aid's helm, stroking gently, although his expression was as fierce as Hot Spot had ever seen on Groove's quiet face.

Blades returned with remarkable speed, with a large all-terrain transport he had commandeered out of Primus only knew where. First Aid was still online, resting against Hot Spot quietly now. Maybe it was only wishful thinking, but his vents seemed to be working more easily. His optics were dazed and unseeing, but he responded weakly when Streetwise squeezed his hand. Hot Spot could sense him again, just faintly, although he was not exactly comforted by the way his sense of him seemed to flicker, skittering unevenly through the white noise of their gestalt bond.

"The Decepticons are gone; they're saying it was a diversion to get the Allspark," Blades reported breathlessly, as he and Groove helped Streetwise onto the transport. "One of the security mechs told me they're triaging the wounded over at the secondary shuttle bay."

"The Allspark," Hot Spot murmured as they carefully lifted First Aid. He wasn't sure if he could stand himself, so he settled for rolling up to rest on his hands and knees for now. They were still learning all the permutations of the war they were now a part of, but he knew if the Allspark was taken…well, they wouldn't give up, but still...."Do you know if they succeeded?"

Blades didn't answer right away, occupied with gently maneuvering First Aid to rest next to Streetwise.

"There were a lot of conflicting reports," Blades said as he returned to brace Hot Spot as he staggered to his feet. "I didn't stay long enough to get the whole story, but from what I could gather Prowl is leading a rescue mission to get it back…so…"

Not good then. Hot Spot felt helplessness tug at him. They should be _doing_ something, but he couldn't think about it too much, trying not to pass out as he struggled onto the transport.

"Hot Spot?" He heard Groove's worried voice, felt him touching his face, but all he could do was nod faintly to reassure him as darkness whirled and his head pounded relentlessly. He tried to concentrate on his sense of First Aid, dim fluttering presence, pressed up against him again, trying to surround it both to steady and be steadied. Sound faded in and out, rumble of machinery, voices, cries of pain and fear, Blades and Groove, someone deeper he didn't recognize. He didn't hear Streetwise, and that worried him, but he could feel his presence close, dimmed but steady in the gestalt bond. They took First Aid from him, at some point, and he moaned in protest.

"It's ok, Hot Spot." That was Wheeljack, and Hot Spot eased a little, despite the strained undertone in Wheeljack's voice. Wheeljack had been with them from the beginning. He would know what to do. Hot Spot tried to online his optics but couldn't make them focus. He was lifted, and for awhile he lost touch with time. When he came to himself again, he was propped in a corner of a large shuttle bay, his frame humming slightly with a strangely pleasant numbness and an energon transfusion line attached to one arm. His head still pounded, but it was distant, as if his processor belonged to someone else. First Aid was to his right, nestled close against him with his arm and injured side draped across Hot Spot's chest, connected to his own collection of tubes and monitors. First Aid's optic shutters blinked once, slowly, as Hot Spot looked at him, but Hot Spot could tell he wasn't really seeing anything, his gaze still unfocused and blurred. Hot Spot felt his spark twist painfully with worry. Streetwise was on his left, head tucked into his side. He seemed to be recharging, and Hot Spot was somewhat comforted by the quiet hum of his systems and lack of monitoring equipment or tubes. If Streetwise didn't need them then he must be doing alright.

There were mechs everywhere, some moaning on berths against the wall, others lining the floor, some sitting, looking about with dazed expressions, a few medics along with anyone uninjured enough to help moving among them with swift purpose. It made him dizzy to watch. He spotted Blades and Groove helping more walking wounded inside, but from the stiff and weary way they were both moving it was hard to tell who actually needed the assistance more.

Wheeljack appeared then and waved some other mechs over to assist, taking Groove and Blades by the arms and escorting them over to where the rest of their teammates were laid out. Wheeljack looked harried and much the worse for wear, the white parts of his armor gray with dust and smeared with streaks of energon.

"Spot…" Blades murmured, kneeling next to them with a pained groan to touch his shoulder. Groove seemed too tired to say anything; he just huddled up against Streetwise and rested his head against Hot Spot's other shoulder.

"You two, stay here and rest." Wheeljack ordered, his voice hoarse. "You shouldn't have been up in the first place." He turned to Hot Spot next and scanned his vitals. "How are you doing now, Hot Spot? Feeling better?" Hot Spot nodded.

"First Aid and Street?" Hot Spot asked. His vocalizer was raspy from grit and smoke.

"Streetwise is stable. He has a broken leg strut and a badly bruised fuel pump, but it's nothing that puts him in immediate danger. His self-repair should be able to handle it, but if it gets worse over the next few cycles we might have to replace the pump. We'll keep an eye on it. I've braced the leg for now but we'll need to do surgery on it later to set it correctly. First Aid…" Wheeljack's voice trailed off and Hot Spot clenched his hands tightly in trepidation. Wheeljack didn't want to tell him.

"Wheeljack, just tell me."

Wheeljack checked the tubes and monitors attached to First Aid, trying to buy a little time while he figured out the best way to say what he had to say. "Hot Spot…the damage is…pretty bad. That was a point blank blast he took. He really…he really shouldn't even be alive. The redundant electrical systems and buffering from his secondary energon network helped disperse the blast energy, and thank Primus Ratchet insisted on iridium-reinforced armor. Without it he would be missing most of his back right now, but even so…" Wheeljack sighed and delicately smoothed part of the damaged area on First Aid's back. It was shiny with some sort of oil, and Hot Spot could see bare armor where the paint had sloughed off.

Wheeljack took a deep intake, and gave them the worst of it. "He's leaking internally from just about every capillary energon line, but the damage is too small and too widespread to go in and fix surgically, and even if we could, his spark is so weak and unstable right now he wouldn't survive it. The blast burnt out pretty much his entire sensory network, no optics, no chemo or audios, all he's got right now is tactile. I can't get good CPU readings – there's too much residual energy, but there's a good chance he's suffered some…some major damage there as well. Even if he survives, the effects could be permanent."

Hot Spot bowed his head for a moment, unable to speak, while Groove let out a muffled sob against his shoulder and Blades stood up to stare grimly at the wall. He moved his hand to take First Aid's hand where it rested on his chest, and ran his thumb gently up and down the palm.

"Ratchet will be back online in another joor or so, and we'll have him take a look at Aid as soon as he's able." Wheeljack said softly. "I don't know if he can tell you anything different, but…"

Ratchet. Hot Spot had almost forgotten. Ratchet had been hurt too. First Aid's first patient. Maybe his only one. As if sensing his thoughts, Wheeljack said, "First Aid probably saved his life. He did everything right." Hot Spot nodded, unable to meet Wheeljack's gaze, and concentrated very hard on First Aid's hand. It stirred a little under his touch, and Hot Spot looked over to find First Aid had lifted his head and was looking blindly towards him, faceplates crinkled slightly in a concerned frown. His hand gripped Hot Spot's weakly for a moment, and then he let go and felt around, searching for something.

"What does he want?" Groove asked, and Blades turned away from his fierce contemplation of the wall to join them again. Groove reached his own hand out to touch First Aid's, and Aid felt it carefully with his own, systems creaking and whirring a little with strain.

"He wants to know if we're ok," Hot Spot realized. Of course.

Groove blinked and then lowered his head so First Aid could feel his face. "I'm ok, Aid, it's all right," he murmured to the searching fingers. First Aid smiled a little and then reached his hand into empty air again.

"Your turn, Blades," Hot Spot said, and Blades came around to let First Aid touch him gently. They guided his hand to Streetwise, still deep in recharge, and First Aid seemed to sense all was not completely well, as the worried frown creased his face again. Wheeljack took his hand then and bent so First Aid could feel his vocal indicators. First Aid let out a faint, happy hum and Wheeljack smiled.

"Well, this is a good sign at least," Wheeljack said. "He can recognize us, which means his CPU may actually be fairly intact."

First Aid felt around some more, still not satisfied, and they looked at each other, puzzled. "Ratchet," Groove said softly, and Wheeljack pressed Aid's hand back down to Hot Spot's chestplates and patted it reassuringly. First Aid made an unhappy noise that caught in a cough. The monitors beeped a few times and they all tensed in apprehension, as the line showing his spark pulse wavered erratically.

Blades made his way back around to sit next to First Aid, and began running a soothing hand over his helm. "Shh, Aid, just rest, we're all ok, you can rest," he murmured, even though First Aid couldn't hear him, and gradually his intake cycles evened out and the spark pulse line…still wasn't steady, not by a long shot, but the big peaks and dips grew less and less. Hot Spot started to relax, but First Aid's optics had that dazed, unfocused look again, and he felt another wave of worry wash through his circuits. Permanent damage. Well, they would find a way to cope with that. As long as he survived, please, Primus, just let him live. As long as First Aid was alive and recognized them, they could figure the rest out as it came.

"Wheeljack, is there anything else we can do for him?" Hot Spot asked.

"Keep doing what you're doing – stay close and keep him calm. The main thing right now is supportive care, and I've got him on anti-convulsants since he's been experiencing some pretty intense power surges from the excess energy in his systems. He's on some hefty painkillers as well, so if he seems out of it, that's part of the reason. I'm frankly amazed he's still awake. If you can get him to recharge, that would be good. I don't want to give him a sedative; I'm afraid it might depress his spark rate too much." Wheeljack scrubbed at his face wearily, smearing the gray dust across his face mask, and Hot Spot wished they weren't hurt so they could help him. He could see more injured mechs being brought in.

"We'll be fine, Wheeljack," Hot Spot told him. "I know you need to get to everyone else. Don't worry about us."

Wheeljack gave him a weary smile. "I know. I've got alerts set up on Aid and Streetwise, so I'll know if anything changes. You all stay put," he added more sternly. "You took a massive energy surge and you're going to need several orns of rest to completely recover. Don't push it or you'll risk permanent circuit damage and the wrath of Ratchet."

Despite his exhaustion and worry, Wheeljack almost laughed as their optics widened. Smart sparklings. He was fairly sure they hadn't experienced any of Ratchet's more colorful moments directly, in their short existence thus far, but they must have heard the stories from Ironhide. He'd be lucky to avoid the wrath of Ratchet himself, once Ratchet was back online and saw the state of his medbay. It had been one of the first places hit.

He needed to go look at the newest arrivals, check on the other critical patients, see if they could salvage more supplies from the ruins of the medbay, make sure the shuttlebay was still structurally sound and wasn't about to come crashing down on top of them…hopefully he could keep everyone alive until Ratchet woke up. Then he'd have another battle on his hands keeping Ratchet from working himself into stasis lock before he recovered. Slag Ratchet for getting himself slagged in the first place and leaving him in charge of this slagging mess.

Wheeljack realized he was still standing in place and now Hot Spot was giving him a worried look. He mustered a smile for them, his poor battered creations. He hadn't seen them in battle (and they would need to talk about that later. As Wheeljack recalled he had given them strict orders to get to the underground bunkers where it was safe, not fling themselves out into the thick of things) but by all reports they very well could have lost the entire base without their actions. If the blast that hit First Aid had gotten through everything would have blown sky high. They'd already exceeded all his expectations, and their lives had barely begun. If they lost Aid…Wheeljack didn't want to think about it. Gestalts. They could lose the whole team.

"I'm proud of you guys, ok?" he told them, guilt and affection and fear for them tugging painfully at his spark. So much for all their well-intentioned plans to ease the Protectobots into the war effort gradually. Hot Spot smiled at the praise, in slightly baffled but pleased oh-thanks-did-we-do-something manner. "I won't be far."

After Wheeljack left, Blades continued to try to coax First Aid into recharge, but when he kept nodding off himself Hot Spot made him lie down. Groove had already drifted into recharge snuggled against his side next to Streetwise. First Aid had tucked up both hands under his chin in his usual recharge position and was resting quietly, but he hadn't shut down. Hot Spot tried to find him with their bond again. It still buzzed painfully with the after effects of being ripped apart by the cannon blast, but his sense of Groove and Blades and Streetwise was back, nearly full force now, especially with them all in close physical proximity. He could feel First Aid's presence as well, but it was shuttered, closed off, in the way that usually meant something was bothering him. What it meant now was anyone's guess. He sensed First Aid's spark pulse finally, not sure if he was feeling it physically or through the bond, but he could pick out that weak rapid fluttering from the thousands of other sensations that were the ever shifting sparks and random processor signals of the other three recharging.

He tried to surround it as he had before, slow and deepen the spark pulses, sync it with his own. He could feel the other three drawing closer even in recharge, almost as if they were forming Defensor but not quite. Their four sparks pulsed in unison, while First Aid's slowed a bit, matched them for a beat, then two beats, then four…five….

Much later Wheeljack and the now functional (barely) Ratchet watched the recharging Protectobots for a long while, glancing down at their medical scanners, comparing the results. All five sparks pulsed in perfect accord. First Aid's spark reading was still somewhat weaker than the rest, but completely stable.

"Do you know what they're doing?" Ratchet asked him.

"I'm as baffled as you are. I know I designed them, but gestalt technology still has a lot of surprises for us apparently."

"Well, let's hope they keep doing it, whatever it is. From the amount of damage and looking at these prior spark readings…he shouldn't have survived, his spark should have given out before he even got here." Ratchet reviewed the readings again, shaking his head in disbelief.

"This is incredible. His spark pulse rate has completely stabilized, even his engine readings are well within normal limits. Still, the level of circuit damage, and the internal leakage," Ratchet shook his head again. "The fact that he's so new is in his favor, but…"

"What's the prognosis for getting his sensory network back online?" Wheeljack asked.

"Normally I'd say pretty poor, but at this point it's anyone's guess how much function he's going to regain. We could always go through and replace the wiring, system by system, but that might end up causing more problems than it solves. I think our best bet is to just give it some time, see what his self-repair does."

"The way they're stabilizing his spark…have you noticed anything like this with the Aerialbots?" Wheeljack wondered.

"Well, they certainly swarm the medbay any time one of them has so much as a scratch, but…I suppose it's possible."

"Maybe you shouldn't be so quick to kick them out. Could be their programming's been telling them something we don't know."

"Hmph," Ratchet snorted. "Maybe next time one of them gets slagged to Pit I'll consider it, but until then if they're not actually in danger of deactivating they can stay the frag out of my medbay." Ratchet looked around the shuttle bay glumly, thinking of the scrap heap that had replaced his medbay, and Wheeljack took his arm and began to steer him back to the portable berth at the other end of the bay.

"Ok, we've seen all the critical patients. Back to bed."

Ratchet snorted again. "Your energy levels are lower than mine. When was the last time you recharged or refueled?"

"I'm not the one who got an entire ceiling dropped on him."

"Oh, is that what happened?"

"And our fledgling Protectobot medic is the one that pulled you out, opened you up, and sealed the cracks in your primary energon line before you could leak to death."

Ratchet stopped at that, looking at Wheeljack as if suspecting a joke.

"I did not," he said finally, as they continued their careful pace towards the berth, "give authorization for him to practice medicine on real patients."

Wheeljack laughed. "Showing signs of insubordination already. I can tell you're going to have to keep that wrench of yours handy to keep this one in line."

Ratchet didn't smile or respond, and Wheeljack looked at his friend, questioning.

Ratchet shook his head. "I hope so."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now featuring: MotherHen!Blades!

Blades was fretting, Hot Spot could tell, as he watched First Aid walk slowly around their borrowed quarters, stepping now with more confidence on his second circuit of the main room, using his hands to lightly touch the consoles, chairs, the stack of boxes that said "fan belts" on the outside (and why would the Aerialbots need four boxes of fan belts? Hot Spot wondered. Unless there was something else inside, but he certainly wasn't going to be so rude as to peek.)

"He's going to hurt himself," Blades muttered, having already moved several things out of the way, and First Aid stopped for a moment, puzzled by a chair that been further from the big desk in the corner the first time around.

"No he's not," Groove said from the couch. "He's being careful. And you're just going to confuse him, moving things around like that, y'know."

Blades grumbled, but replaced the small side table with a stack of datapads that he had been trying to scoot to the side. First Aid made it around a second time and started the third, smiling slightly, barely using his hands at all. He wasn't moving nearly as stiffly as before, and Hot Spot was happy to see him up and around, instead of lying far too still, optics glazed with painkillers and struggling for every intake.

Streetwise was watching First Aid with a pleased smile too, from his place next to Groove on the couch. It worried Hot Spot a little to see Streetwise being so…stationary. Even when he was being still, Streetwise was always in motion normally, the expressions on his face always swift and darting, optics always seeking, gathering. Now he was just…quiet somehow. Not himself. Ratchet had assured him that Streetwise would be fine. The surgery on his leg was delayed until Ratchet could get some of his medical equipment repaired, but everything else was healing nicely. Maybe it was just his imagination. They were all still tired, still achingly sore, but it was getting better. They just needed time, and he needed patience, not exactly what he was best at. This healing business took too long. The base was in shambles, there was work to be done and they could help do it, but Ratchet had forbidden them to set one foot outside these quarters, for both medical and security reasons he had said.

Officially, they did not even exist yet. The creation of a new Autobot gestalt team was to be kept top secret until such team was fully trained and ready to be placed in action. The original time frame still had them in training for another nine vorns at least, but Hot Spot supposed their cover had been blown big time when they formed Defensor and started digging out buried Autobots and tossing Decepticons into the moat. They didn't have any weapons, so Defensor had had to improvise. Hot Spot wondered if they were in trouble for disobeying orders, breaking cover. He'd never been in trouble before; he'd never really had occasion to be. Hot Spot wasn't sure what he thought of the idea. No one had come to talk to them yet, but he supposed they were all still very busy.

He knew only bits and pieces of what had happened since their impromptu participation in the recent battle. The attack on the base had been a diversion, staged by the Decepticons to draw away forces that were protecting the Allspark. From some of the snatches of conversation he caught from the hallway outside their quarters and unclassified comm. chatter he had tapped into, it sounded like there might have been two diversions. Or the Allspark had been hidden on the base and the diversion was somewhere else. It was very confusing, and if Streetwise had been more himself he would have already ferreted out the truth.

He could have asked Wheeljack of course, or Ratchet, but they were both so worn and hurried when they came by to bring them energon and check their injuries. He didn't want to take more of their time or keep them away from their other patients, although it was strange, not to have Wheeljack with them all the time, hard to watch him hurry away and not be able to go with him.

"He looks like he's having so much fun, it almost makes me want to try it," Streetwise was saying, and Groove laughed. "It does look like fun – you're right!" Groove pulled himself stiffly up off the couch, shuttered his optics and began feeling his way around the room as well.

Blades groaned. "Great. This is a disaster waiting to happen."

"Actually, this might be a good training exercise," Hot Spot told him. "Learning to maneuver without optics, rely on our other senses. We should all try it." Blades stared at him in dismay.

"Hey, just havin' fun here," Groove protested as he carefully felt his way along the back of the couch. "Don't you go turning this into a training exercise, then it's work!"

Hot Spot got up and stood in the middle of the little circular path First Aid was following. Blades looked at him questioningly. "He's gotten too good at it already; he needs a challenge," Hot Spot told him, and Blades rolled his optics.

Hot Spot waited, smiling a little as First Aid drew closer, hands ready to catch him just in case, but First Aid slowed as he sensed…something, maybe an air current or temperature change, maybe a ripple in the gestalt bond they shared. First Aid reached out one hand, touched and laughed suddenly in surprise, not expecting to find Hot Spot. Hot Spot drew him close for a moment, then lifted him up and spun around a few times (just a few, and not very fast, mindful that First Aid's equilibrium sensors were still not entirely operational), and set him down facing back the way he came. Blades glared, but First Aid wasn't confused for long, lightly touching one of the desks to get his bearings and stumping off confidently the other way around. Groove and First Aid missed a collision by a narrow margin as they passed each other and Blades groaned again. Streetwise turned to look at him in exasperation. "Blades, you worry too much. They're fine!"

Hot Spot felt warm, all the way to his spark, standing there, watching them. Groove wobbling unsteadily around the room with arms outstretched and optics shuttered, looking completely ridiculous and not caring for scrap. Streetwise giving him helpful advice ("try actually touching something instead of using your arms for shock absorbers, might work better there, crazy 'bot"), Blades shaking his head in what was supposed to be disgust, but Hot Spot could see him suppressing a smile.

A gentle touch on his back made him jump, and he turned and looked down at Aid's sightless optics, mischievous delight at having snuck up behind him dancing across his faceplates. Hot Spot felt his spark pulse suddenly with an almost painful aching love, but resisted the impulse to crush First Aid to him in a hug of joy and fear and relief. He settled instead for gripping his shoulders and pressing their foreheads together briefly, before gently spinning his brother around to send him off in another random direction. First Aid laughed softly and walked forward with steady confidence, but Hot Spot frowned as he reached the couch and stopped to lean on the side for a long moment.

Blades noticed too, (see, I _told_ you this was a bad idea, his quick glance to Hot Spot said) and was immediately at First Aid's side, guiding him to sit on the couch next to Streetwise.

"He's overheating," Blades said, with a worried glance at Hot Spot.

"No need to panic yet," Hot Spot reassured him. "Ratchet said his thermostat was probably out of whack, and his cooling fans are still glitched up. He'll be fine if we just make sure he rests and cools down."

One of the first things they had done once they were mostly awake and they knew First Aid would, barring unexpected complications, most likely live, had been to coerce Wheeljack into retrieving First Aid's medical datapads from what was left of the room where they had originally been staying. They had all pored over them (as much as they could, reading for any length of time still gave them all headaches), searching for anything that might be even remotely related to First Aid's injuries and chances of recovery, while Ratchet muttered dire threats about "knowing just enough to be dangerous" and "welding their hands to their afts if they even thought about playing doctor." He had, however, shown them how to calculate the dosage and give First Aid his painkillers, and movements to do with his arms and legs to prevent his joints and hydraulics from stiffening as they healed. Hot Spot had wondered, watching Groove carefully inject painkillers into one of First Aid's secondary energon lines, if First Aid found it ironic that his brothers already had more actual hands-on medical experience than he did.

"Maybe we should call Ratchet just in case," Blades fretted, and Hot Spot couldn't really blame him for feeling a little overprotective. He was feeling that way himself, if he were honest. He came over and placed a hand on First Aid's arm, which didn't seem that warm, but when he slipped a finger under the plating (First Aid squirmed a little, it probably tickled) the cables beneath were definitely hot. Groove handed him First Aid's medical scanner and he took a reading.

"Core temp above normal, not in the danger zone," he told the rest of the team. "We'll call Ratchet if it doesn't start coming down soon. The remote alert would notify him anyway, remember, if anything was wrong," he reassured Blades.

First Aid ran his hand over the medical scanner with a little smile, and Hot Spot felt a pang. He had been so excited, to be working with Ratchet, to be finally learning to be a medic, and now…although First Aid didn't seem to be brooding, at least. In fact he seemed perfectly content, despite the discomfort of his healing injuries, once he had assured himself that his gestaltmates were ok.

Almost as if reading Hot Spot's processor (and maybe he was, although the bond from Hot Spot's end remained stubbornly blocked off) First Aid reached over, felt out Streetwise's shoulder and tapped it a few times insistently. Streetwise chuckled, and obligingly lifted his injured leg and laid it across the couch so that First Aid could check it over, testing the bend at the ankle, making sure the brace was properly placed, and feeling carefully for signs of heat or misalignment in the limb.

Streetwise, watching Hot Spot closely and too perceptive by far, said "Y'know, I don't think being blind and deaf is going to slow him down much at all. Right now he's probably thinking, 'what great experience, I get to know what it's like to be a patient and that will be great training for treating injuries in the future since I've already been through them first hand.'"

Groove laughed a little at that. "You're probably right." No one argued. Streetwise probably was right. They had never known him to be wrong so far, when it came to what they were thinking. Hot Spot wished he could be so sure. It was frustrating, not being able to ask him, to know for sure if First Aid was in pain or afraid. Not that he would tell them if he was. Despite the chaos of the battle, they had all learned quite a bit about what First Aid had NOT been telling them when they merged as Defensor. They would need to talk about that. Hot Spot rubbed his head a bit. There had to be a way to communicate with him, but attempts to uplink directly just gave both ends of the link blinding headaches. Hot Spot could sense him with the gestalt bond, feel his spark pulse, but his thoughts and emotions were walled off. They had tried writing, and First Aid had obligingly traced out several perfect glyphs. Perfect, backwards, and they made no sense at all. "Hmm, output's a bit scrambled," Ratchet noted, but didn't seem too concerned about it, and so Hot Spot tried not to be concerned either.

First Aid had satisfied himself that Streetwise was healing well, and now Blades was trying to get him to lie down on the couch, but First Aid was having none of it, huffing air through his vents a little in a way that clearly said "enough already." Hot Spot had thought he had known his brothers down to their last microchip, but First Aid, he was beginning to realize, was not only far too yielding and accommodating for his own good, he was also stubborn as Pit. An odd combination, but there it was.

"You've been hogging him, Blades. It's my turn," Groove said, and tugged a little on First Aid's hand from his position on the floor in front of the couch. This time First Aid cooperated, sliding down to snuggle next to him.

Hot Spot sat on the floor in front of them both and felt First Aid's arm again. It was warmer than before, but when he took another scan his core temp had dropped closer to normal. The excess heat was working its way to the surface to dissipate, he had read that somewhere in one of the medical texts, making First Aid's surface plating feel hotter even as his core cooled.

Groove tucked First Aid more securely under the crook of his arm, careful of the raw half-healed patches on his back, and turned up his own cooling fans a few notches. First Aid sighed a little in relief as the light breeze drifted over his chassis. Groove began humming softly, and Hot Spot recognized the melody, one of Wheeljack's favorite songs, about a long journey taken and a long journey's end, and sharing a cube of energon with old friends.

Wheeljack used to sing to them all the time, back on their little nameless planet where they had been built (it seemed a very long time ago now, a life already put behind them). It had been the only way, Wheeljack often claimed, that he could get Hot Spot to slow down long enough to initiate his recharge programs. Groove was very good at singing. Hot Spot liked to listen to him. Hot Spot thought he was a good singer too, but no one else seemed to agree. "That's ok, Hot Spot, you're good at lots of other things," they would tell him, and laugh, and let him sing along anyway.

Blades grinned at him from the couch, where, deprived of First Aid to fuss over, he had settled for pulling Streetwise against his side in a one-armed hug. Hot Spot shook his head, knowing what Blades was thinking. He wanted to sing too, but he'd spare them for now. Plus he had never managed to get the knack of singing quietly. Not that it would bother First Aid, Hot Spot thought with sad amusement, but they all couldn't get used to him not hearing, and tended to whisper and shush each other when he was drifting off to recharge anyway.

Groove suddenly trailed off, and Hot Spot looked at him questioningly.

"Huh," Groove said, and hummed a few more notes, much slower than before. This time Hot Spot could hear First Aid humming as well, his voice searching a little each time before matching up with the notes Groove was producing.

"Can he hear us?" Hot Spot leaned forward in sudden hope. "Aid?"

Groove stopped long enough to say, "I don't think so, Hot Spot. I think he's doing it by feel, the sound vibrations." Hot Spot noticed then that First Aid had placed one of his hands next to Groove's vocalizer. First Aid's expression was expectant, clearly hoping Groove would keep going, and he smiled when Groove resumed the song.

"Wow," Streetwise said softly as First Aid continued to hum, becoming more accurate with every note until he matched Groove almost perfectly. "That's pretty amazing." Hot Spot nodded, feeling strangely comforted. First Aid still couldn't hear them, but it didn't feel like he was quite so cut off now.

First Aid's optic shutters drifted closed, although he still hummed, but as the song neared the end he sighed and curled up closer to Groove, just "listening" as his systems gradually edged into recharge.

"Is he out?" Streetwise whispered, and Hot Spot smiled. Whispering again.

"Not quite, but just give him a few more kliks and he'll be sound," Groove answered, also whispering.

"Well, Blades sure is," Streetwise muttered. "Can someone get him off of me? I'm kinda getting squashed here."

Blades was indeed soundly recharging, leaning heavily on Streetwise, who had nearly disappeared into the deep cushioning of the couch. Hot Spot laughed and rescued Streetwise, hauling the oblivious-to-the-world Blades down to join them on the floor. Streetwise extracted himself from the couch and slid down next to Groove, and they all curled up together contentedly. Hot Spot waited until the other four had all dropped into recharge before drifting off himself, feeling the reassuring pulse of his teammates' sparks, strong and steady all around him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Protectobots finally meet one of their big brothers.

Silverbolt wasn't quite sure what to make of Wheeljack's expression, when the engineer informed him there were some new mechs they'd had to house in the Aerialbots' quarters. Wheeljack was looking very tired, of course. Wounded mechs were still arriving from neighboring areas, and Ratchet had overdone things trying to see all of the injured and salvage what was left of his medbay. The CMO was currently (and literally) tied to his berth, not that that seemed to stop him from ordering Wheeljack around and overseeing the treatment of his patients. That rather…gleeful…gleam in Wheeljack's optics was not due to exhaustion, however. Silverbolt was not exactly thrilled about the idea of strange mechs living in their rooms, but he could certainly understand the need. He'd been shocked at the extent of damage to the base, and it was a pleasant surprise to learn that their quarters had survived mostly unscathed. He certainly wasn't going to begrudge a bunch of poor injured mechs a quiet place to recover – did Wheeljack think he was going to throw a fit or something?

No…that didn't quite explain the air of suppressed mirth in Wheeljack's optics, as if he had a shiny new invention waiting in their quarters that he couldn't wait to surprise them with. It made Silverbolt nervous. One of the first things the Aerialbots had learned after their creation was to be extremely cautious around Wheeljack's shiny new inventions, even taking in to account they were themselves, one. Of his inventions.

Silverbolt shook his head. He was stalling. Resolutely he knocked on the door, (and despite his best intentions, he did feel a little miffed that he had to knock; it was his own door after all). He hoped their quarters hadn't been too messed up, although, he remembered a little guiltily, they hadn't been all that clean before they left.

He was greeted by a black-and-pale-blue fire truck with warm red optics, who took one look at him and breathed "Silverbolt" as his face cracked into the biggest, most delighted smile he had ever seen on a mech. Behind him were four other, smaller mechs scattered around the common room. One bore signs of major damage – a large area of paint on his back and side was patchy and peeling, revealing blistered and half-healed gray underplating beneath. The injured mech didn't seem to be aware of his arrival. He was sipping slowly on a cube of energon, with another mech – a flier, helo-model, Silverbolt noted in startlement – standing protectively near him. He had moved slightly in front of the injured one, his expression clearly saying "touch this one at your peril."

In contrast to the helicopter, the mech at the door couldn't be happier to see him. Silverbolt didn't see why this should be so, exactly, but he found himself responding to that welcoming smile with one of his own. "Come on in," the fire truck said, taking him by a hand and drawing him through the doorway. "They said you and your team were on a mission. I didn't expect to meet you so soon!"

"Yeah, the mission. Turned out to be another diversion by the Decepticons. False lead. We really fell for that one," Silverbolt said in disgust. That had been quite the fiasco, not that any of it was their fault at least. "We made it back to help chase the slaggers out of Iacon, though," he added in satisfaction.

"Is the rest of your team ok?" the friendly mech asked in swift concern, and Silverbolt nodded.

"For the most part. Just some minor damage, but we're all airworthy, which is the main thing. Wheeljack and Ratchet are looking the rest of them over now."

After a long pause in which the fire truck continued to gaze at him like he was Prime himself, Silverbolt finally asked, a bit awkwardly, "So…uh…what's your name?" The other mech blinked in surprise.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! Haven't met many other mechs, guess I need more practice," he laughed. "I'm Hot Spot…and this is…" the mech trailed off as he seemed about to introduce the rest of the mechs in the room, looking slightly troubled. "Wheeljack didn't tell you?"

"He just said that there were some new mechs camping out in our quarters that I should meet," Silverbolt shrugged.

"Pardon me," Hot Spot said, "it's just…well, we were kind of classified." Silverbolt noticed then that none of the mechs wore any sort of insignia, and underneath the grit and several scratches and score marks they all carried, their paint was almost painfully new and shiny. On the other hand he could hear Hot Spot's hydraulics creak faintly as he shifted; he seemed to move stiffly, like some of the oldest mechs on base. Just how old were these guys anyway? The Aerialbots had been some of the last mechs created, once the war had intensified. Silverbolt had never met anyone younger than himself and his team, but something subtle about the way Hot Spot talked, held himself, his bright optics and innocent eagerness…Silverbolt had the strangest urge to pat the mech in front of him on the helm and get him a cube of energon. Were they neutrals maybe? Rescued from one of the off-planet colonies, could be, although it would make no sense to bring them here of all places, unless they had some type of top-secret information….

Hot Spot appeared to have come to a decision. "At this point…I guess it's ok. Anyway," he said briskly, "this is Streetwise, and Groove," pointing to the two mechs in succession, and they both gave him friendly wide-eyed waves, "and over there we have Blades," indicating the helicopter, who nodded, suspicious still, but seeming willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, "and First Aid," the injured one, who still hadn't responded to his presence. Blind maybe? Silverbolt wondered. Or some sort of major CPU damage.

"Thank you for the use of your quarters," Hot Spot continued. "We really appreciate it. Hope we haven't inconvenienced you or anything – we can be out of here in just a few kliks…" and Silverbolt waved him off.

"No no. We're staying in the officer's conference room, we're comfy. Got our own energon dispenser and everything…you guys stay put. We won't be doing much other than catching a few breems of recharge anyway," Silverbolt added ruefully. "Superion's been recruited to clear rubble."

A whole multitude of emotions chased themselves across Hot Spot's open face at this statement – sympathy, indecision, frustration, and that last one…if it wasn't ridiculous Silverbolt would have called it a sort of wistful envy. His guess was confirmed however, when Groove spoke up.

"Hot Spot, you're in no shape to go clearing rubble, don't even think about it," Groove warned him. "Remember, Ratchet said permanent joint and servo damage if we overdo it. We're supposed to take it easy. You can do it, I have faith, just another two or three orns," he said, switching from mock-stern scolding to teasing encouragement.

Hot Spot waved his hands as if fending him off, laughing. "I wouldn't have to _clear_ rubble, I could just…supervise…show everyone where to put the rubble, make rubble clearing charts, that kind of thing."

Something about the fond, amused looks the three other mechs were giving Hot Spot made something stir in the back of Silverbolt's processor. This was not just a group of random neutrals bunking together out of necessity. This was a team, and Hot Spot was their leader. There was something about the way they were tuned in to one another that was setting off little prickles of recognition through his circuits, but his CPU hadn't given it a name yet. It was there, that thought, forming, he could see its shape, but a comm. from Air Raid distracted him.

_Hey 'Bolt, what's taking you so long? Did the squatters trash our quarters or something?_

_No, they've been excellent guests actually. I don't think they've even been in your rooms, just the common area._

_Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to think what they would make of Fireflight's organic rock collection._

Hot Spot was looking at him curiously. He could tell Silverbolt was receiving a transmission, but since it was a private line he couldn't tell what they were saying.

_Ratchet give you guys the all clear?_

_Pretty much, although he wants Wheeljack to keep Fireflight here and realign his flaps,_ Air Raid sent. _You wouldn't believe some of the stories they're telling about the battle in here, and Fireflight's eating it all up._

_I am not,_ Fireflight broke in. _Silverbolt, guess what!_ _There was another gestalt during the base attack. A brand new one! And it was an Autobot gestalt because they were throwing Decepticons in the moat and then they stopped a disrupter cannon from blowing up the entire base. No one had ever seen them before, no one even knew they were here! Where do you think they came from, Silverbolt? Do you think they're still here?_

_Fireflight, there's no new gestalt,_ Air Raid interrupted him. _We would have known about it. Some of these guys probably got their CPU's jarred during the battle and were hallucinating one of the 'Con combiners, probably Bruticus or something._

Another gestalt team. The nameless, blurry shape in Silverbolt's processor suddenly zoomed into sharp focus. Five new mechs, a close knit team even on casual inspection. Disrupter cannon damage.

_Silverbolt, you have to believe me! Ratchet keeps giving funny looks whenever they talk about the gestalt, and Wheeljack won't answer any questions, and wouldn't that be great? If there was another combiner team and we weren't the only one?_

_Fireflight?_

_Uh, yeah?_

_Fireflight, I believe you. You are absolutely right, there was another combiner team at that battle._

_What! Silverbolt, don't encourage him!_ Air Raid sent indignantly.

_Air Raid, he's right. There's another gestalt team. I'm standing right in front of them_.

_Wait, they're the guys in our quarters? No way!_

_You can't be serious,_ that was Slingshot, who must have been listening in, and Skydive, who added, _Silverbolt, it's impossible. How could they have been constructed without anyone knowing…_ Skydive's transmission paused for a moment. _Wheeljack. That big top secret project he's been working on._

The Aerialbots had been surprised but delighted to learn that the mech they considered to be the closest thing they had to a creator was at the base. He had told them he might be working on the project, staged at a secret location, for several vorns, and that he would probably only be able to see them for brief visits during that time. They had missed him a great deal, the vorn he'd been gone. _Do you think…_

_That project only started a vorn ago, Skydive,_ Air Raid sent _. There's no way he could have built a new gestalt that fast. And even if he had, they'd still be sparklings. What makes you so sure they're a gestalt, Silverbolt?_

_They just…now that I know, I just see it. They're like us. And I think they might be very young._

_Less than a vorn? C'mon,_ Slingshot scoffed. _It took us five vorns to form Superion, and another twenty before we got to be anything other than glorified message runners and cargo carriers. What are they, geniuses or something?_

_Well, they're pretty sharp, I'd say, but I only just met them guys. Give me a few more breems here._

_We're coming to meet them too!_ Air Raid decided, and the rest added their excited agreement, Fireflight wailing, _wait for me guys, Ratchet won't let me go yet!_

_HOLD IT!_ Silverbolt roared, as much as one could roar through a comm. signal. _You will do no such thing. These guys are still in pretty rough shape, and we don't know the whole story yet. They don't need four crazy jets barging in here and asking them questions._

_But Siiilverbolt_ , came the fourfold whine.

_I will fill you in as soon as I know more, and I'm sure they'll be eager to meet you once I can give them a little warning, but for now STAY PUT._

Silverbolt emerged from his inner debate to find Hot Spot watching him with a quizzical look. "Brothers?" he asked, and at the understanding twinkle in his optics, Silverbolt felt sudden rush of warm kinship with this sturdy, cheerful fire truck. Silverbolt grinned back at him and said, "Well. Took me long enough to figure it out didn't it."

"No, I'd say you did pretty good! Sorry about that, we're still supposed to be classified, so I couldn't actually tell you, but since you know…I think Wheeljack was going to tell you pretty soon anyway."

"Well, the rest of my lunatics know now too, and they're very curious, but I'll do my best to keep them away until you're sure you're all up for it. They can be a bit much, and it looks like you guys had a rough time. Fireflight was saying something about a cannon disrupter blast?"

Hot Spot glanced at First Aid, who had his head turned in their direction, tilting it slightly as if he sensed Silverbolt's presence. "First Aid took the brunt of it, pretty much point blank," and Silverbolt blanched.

"Point blank," he breathed. "Primus, he shouldn't -"

"- be alive," Hot Spot finished for him. "We know. Ratchet keeps telling us," he added with a broken half-laugh that held no humor. "I kinda wish he'd stop."

"Yeah, I can see how that would get old quick," Silverbolt told him, and Hot Spot took a deep breath, and gave him a shaky smile. Silverbolt wondered again how old they were. "How's he doing now?"

"Still pretty sore and most of his systems are still glitching on and off, but it's getting better, and his armor is healing. The main thing we're worried about is his sensory network. We don't know...Ratchet says some of the damage could be permanent."

Blades frowned and pressed his lips together at that, and then tapped First Aid on the arm, trying to get him to drink some more from the cube he was ignoring. First Aid obediently took a tiny sip and then set the cube back down. "And he's barely taking any energon," Blades said. "He was drinking it a lot better before. What if he's developed an error in his energon processing system? "

"We'll ask Ratchet about it, don't worry, Dr. Blades," Hot Spot joked, although he was looking at First Aid with a concerned frown as well.

Blades nudged First Aid on the arm again, and First Aid reached over and patted him a few times on the leg, then stood up and made his way towards Hot Spot and Silverbolt. "I think he knows you're here, or that someone's here anyway. He can always tell when Ratchet or Wheeljack show up, we're not sure how." Hot Spot moved forward and gently took First Aid by the shoulders and steered him over to Silverbolt.

"Do you mind?" Hot Spot asked.

"Of course not," Silverbolt told him, and Hot Spot guided First Aid's hands to meet Silverbolt's. The smaller mech's optics widened a little at the unfamiliar touch, but he smiled eagerly. Hot Spot grinned at them both, appearing completely relaxed. He seemed to have given Silverbolt his complete trust, but the other three watched Silverbolt closely. Friendly, but watching. Silverbolt had no doubt that if he made one even slightly off move towards their teammate they'd be on him in a nanoklik. Silverbolt didn't mind. In fact, he rather approved. He would feel the same way about any of his wingmates if the situation were reversed (not that that bore thinking about for long…the idea of Fireflight, or Air Raid, or any of them this badly injured, cut off from the world…he flinched away from the image. Definitely not something he wanted to consider).

Poor little 'bot probably couldn't tell much about him from his hands, Silverbolt figured, so he crouched down and ducked his head, inviting First Aid to feel his face and helm and then turning to let him trace gentle fingers over his wings. It tickled, and Silverbolt tried not to squirm. First Aid drew air through his intakes, sharply, and Silverbolt turned to see if something was wrong and heard First Aid laugh softly, as he found himself engulfed in a surprisingly strong hug.

"I think he knows who you are," Hot Spot said, smiling broadly. Silverbolt tentatively hugged First Aid back, being very careful of the raw patched places. Poor kid, he really was a mess. First Aid let out a contented sound, a short hum, but then frowned suddenly as his hand slid higher up Silverbolt's arm, encountering a fairly deep scrape left from when Air Raid had been knocked into him by Thundercracker. It wasn't serious, although Ratchet had told him to come and get it (and the rest of him) looked at later. First Aid seemed to be taking it very seriously though, carefully mapping out the boundaries of the injury, fingers so gentle they didn't even cause it to twinge, and then proceeding to check over every inch of his frame for anything else that might be damaged. He looked up helplessly at Hot Spot, who was making a rather heroic effort not to laugh at Silverbolt's "what do I do now?" expression.

Streetwise and Groove made their way over to be able to see the "show." Streetwise had a damaged leg, Silverbolt hadn't noticed before, and Groove had to support most of his weight. Both of them were stifling small snickers of amusement.

"Silverbolt, I'm afraid you are now officially a patient in Aid's book," Groove told him. "You're doomed. You might as well resign yourself to getting examined any time he can get his hands on you."

"Really, I'm fine," Silverbolt murmured, as First Aid lifted his arm, testing the range of motion. He gasped as something caught unexpectedly, and First Aid paused immediately, lips pressed together in concentration as he carefully felt in and around the shoulder joint.

"At least it'll distract him from me for a little bit," Streetwise said, amusement and fondness appearing in quick succession across his mobile face as he watched his brother. First Aid opened one of his panels and pulled out what looked like a long narrow pair of tweezers, and Silverbolt's expression grew alarmed.

"Uh, should I be worried here?"

"Just hold still," Streetwise recommended. "He uses us as practice 'bots all the time, and we've all survived so far. He never takes anything apart that he can't put back together again. Just don't tell Ratchet. Technically he's not cleared to work on real patients yet."

That was not exactly reassuring, and Silverbolt held very still as First Aid slipped the tweezers in between the cables and wiring of his shoulder joint. There was a brief twinge, and First Aid drew out the tweezers slowly, his other hand firmly grasping Silverbolt's arm to keep it from moving.

"Wow, look at that!" Groove exclaimed, as First Aid removed a long bolt, the kind used to hold shipping crates together, from Silverbolt's shoulder joint.

"That was in my shoulder?" Silverbolt marveled. "I didn't even notice it." That wouldn't have been fun, if he'd tried to transform with a loose crate bolt in his shoulder. He let First Aid move his arm around a few times, and this time it moved easily, no twinges or catching anywhere. "Thanks. Thank you, First Aid," he said, patting the little red-and-white mech on the shoulder a few times trying to convey his appreciation. First Aid gave him a happy smile and patted his arm a few times in return, apparently giving him a clean bill of health.

Hot Spot was watching First Aid with a proud expression, but the little furrow on his brow plates also conveyed his anxious concern about his teammate, and Silverbolt wondered again how well he would be handling this in the same situation. What if it was Fireflight…and a surge of dread rolled through his circuits at the very thought. He would be a basket case. No need to wonder. He would be in full-out panic mode. He wasn't sure how Hot Spot was managing to stay so calm.

Silverbolt was getting near constant pings from his own teammates, but he ignored them for now, although he'd have to get back soon before they started taking more drastic measures to get his attention. Hot Spot asked for information about what had been going on since the battle, and Silverbolt was shocked to realize they didn't even know that the Allspark had been rescued and recovered from the Decepticons, relocated to a new, secret, and hopefully more secure location. (The Aerialbots knew the new location. It had been Skydive that had carried the Allspark to its new hiding place, and Silverbolt was beyond relieved that that nerve-wracking operation had gone off without a hitch.)

Hot Spot also seemed to be under the impression that they were deserving of some sort of reprimand or punishment for breaking cover during the battle and revealing their gestalt form ahead of time, and Silverbolt felt a protective indignation on their behalf. From what he little he had already gathered, the actions of the Protectobot team had probably saved the base. It wasn't fair to leave them hanging, ignored, and worried about punishment when instead they should probably get commendations or something. He couldn't really blame Optimus or Prowl – they certainly had more than enough on their processors, but he resolved to do a little prodding if the opportunity arose.

It turned out that the Protectobots had been at the base for less than an orn, just long enough to meet Prowl, and Optimus Prime, who wanted to explain what they were fighting for, give them as unbiased a perspective of both sides as he could, and make sure they would be (one day, far in the future) joining the war effort of their own free will. ("Optimus, he's nice, but he worries too much," had been Blades' opinion, and the other three nodded in agreement.) They were all badly missing Wheeljack, who had been with them nearly every day since they first onlined, and this confirmed his initial suspicions. The Protectobots were not even a full vorn old yet. Sparklings. It wasn't obvious at first, but despite the aura of level-headed intelligence they all had about them, these Protectobots were very, very young.

Silverbolt would have liked to stay longer, and talk to Hot Spot especially. There was so much he wanted to ask, compare experiences with another gestalt leader. He had resigned himself to being the only one (there were other gestalt leaders of course, but they weren't exactly on casual speaking terms, although there were times…), and now here was someone who might actually understand! And he got the feeling that, despite Hot Spot's composure and cheery demeanor, the fire truck had been considerably more shaken by the battle and injuries to his team than he was letting on. They were all getting tired, though. First Aid had curled up against Blades, tucked his hands under his chin, and nodded off after Groove had given him a dose of painkillers (Silverbolt was glad to see that; he had not missed the pained catching in First Aid's air intakes when he was checking him over). The rest of them were in varying degrees of droopiness, although Hot Spot didn't seem to notice he was listing off center as Silverbolt filled him in on the events occurring outside their quarters.

When he left them finally, reluctantly, he was not particularly surprised to find Air Raid, Fireflight, Skydive, and Slingshot backing away from the door to their quarters, guilty expressions on their faces. Hot Spot peered around Silverbolt, and Air Raid and Fireflight both shoved past their team commander to begin bombarding Hot Spot with questions. Skydive and Slingshot both held back – Skydive out of politeness, and Slingshot pretending disinterest. Hot Spot, not fazed in the least, answered the questions as fast as they could come up with them ("Yes, we're a really a gestalt." "Wheeljack built us but he had lots of help." "No, no one has asked us if we explode yet, why?" "Our combined form is designated Defensor." "Yeah, throwing the 'Cons in the moat is about all we could do - Wheeljack hasn't activated Defensor's weapons yet, but we really weren't supposed to be fighting in the first place.") seeming as delighted by the attention from the two jets as they were fascinated to meet him. They were playing "guess the Protectobots' age" ("15 vorns?" "No." "20 vorns?" "No, lower." "12 vorns?" Hot Spot laughing, "Lower.") when Silverbolt finally dragged the two miscreants out by their ailerons.

_That little helo is so cute!_ Fireflight sent as he reluctantly backed out the door. _Can I have him? Please?_

_No!_ Silverbolt sent back firmly. Good grief, that was the last thing he needed, Fireflight trying to kidnap one of Hot Spot's team members. _You cannot 'have' Blades, Fireflight._

"We'll come back later," Silverbolt said, once he got them shoved mostly out the door, and at Hot Spot's wistful look he added, "not long, I promise. You rest, take care of your team."

Their optics met in a sort of unvoiced understanding, and Silverbolt saw things there, in Hot Spot's warm red gaze, things that a frightened sparkling who was also a capable gestalt commander might need to talk about.

"There'll be plenty of time to get to know my pack of lunatics, don't worry. Maybe we can share some tips."

Hot Spot smiled. "I'd like that very much."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot Spot and Silverbolt have a nice chat.

It took a little longer than Silverbolt originally intended before he could follow up on his promise to come back, but he did manage to make a quick flight over to the neighboring base to track down Optimus Prime and request that he talk to the Protectobots. He had been hesitant to bother him. Optimus seemed so tired and distracted (all of them were right now, really, but Optimus usually managed to hide it better), and he was surrounded by a constant whirlwind of emergency meetings and mechs seeking him out. Optimus, however, had been appalled to learn that Prowl still hadn't declassified the Protectobots, that they were still confined to quarters and unaware of what was going on. A quick comm. conversation had settled that issue, and Optimus promised to make a special trip to speak to the Protectobots personally. He also hadn't been aware of how badly they had been injured, and seemed quite troubled. Silverbolt was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the potential loss of their strategic importance. More like guilt over letting younglings get hurt. He had been the same way over the Aerialbots (and still was, although in recent vorns he'd finally started to treat them more as soldiers, although he'd believed in their potential from the beginning, even when they were really just wayward younglings who had no idea what they were doing), the first times they had gotten banged up in battles.

The washracks were operational again, and Skydive suggested they take the Protectobots and show them around a bit. Skydive had been feigning only mild interest in the new gestalt, but Silverbolt could tell he was just as excited as the rest of them. When they got to their quarters, however, Ratchet was already there, checking over First Aid while the rest of the team hovered in concern.

"Hot Spot?" Silverbolt indicated First Aid with a concerned expression, and Hot Spot shook his head and came over.

"We don't know. Ratchet says his vitals are stable, but he won't take any energon, and he keeps rubbing at his face, like something hurts, but we've given him all of his painkillers. Ratchet thinks it might just be his sensory network trying to reboot, but....Hi guys," he said belatedly to the rest of the Aerialbots, standing somewhat subdued now behind Silverbolt.

Silverbolt made introductions and explained why they had come, and Hot Spot finally convinced the rest of his team to go get cleaned up, even though their reluctance to leave their injured teammate was clear. Silverbolt opted to stay behind with Hot Spot and First Aid, to "talk about leader stuff" Fireflight teased, and Ratchet escorted them out the door with dire warnings not to keep the Protectobots out too long or do anything strenuous, and if they so much as jarred a servo they were to call him immediately, and Streetwise was to stay off of that leg (Air Raid promptly slung Streetwise up and over onto his back, and they both gave Ratchet remarkably similar cheeky grins.) Silverbolt watched them go with some trepidation, but hopefully with Skydive running point they wouldn't get into too much trouble. It was only a trip to the washracks and back. What could go wrong?

Hot Spot settled on the floor in front of the couch (where it appeared the Protectobots had been recharging, even though there were perfectly good berths in all of the rooms) where First Aid was curled up in a limp little ball, with an energon drip attached to one arm. First Aid slowly uncurled when he realized Silverbolt was there, smiled blearily, and, despite both their efforts to persuade him to stay put, dragged himself up to check Silverbolt's arm and shoulder. He paused often to rub at his optics, and Hot Spot's browplates furrowed again in concern. Satisfied at last, he snuggled up against Hot Spot with a weary sigh. Hot Spot stroked a hand over the ridges of his helm gently, and First Aid shuttered his optics, appearing to drift into a light recharge, although he stirred a bit, now and then, as if he couldn't quite get comfortable. They sat there quietly for awhile. Hot Spot needed to talk about things, Silverbolt sensed, but he didn't seem to want to break the silence.

"So, tell me what's on your processor," Silverbolt said finally. Hot Spot met his gaze with a half-smile and the looked back down at First Aid. He started to say something, then shook his head and was silent for another long moment, while Silverbolt waited patiently.

"I panicked," Hot Spot admitted at last, "when we took that hit, out there, and First Aid was hurt. I couldn't think, I didn't know what to do. It's a good thing Blades and Groove kept their processors functioning, because I certainly wasn't any help at all. I'm supposed to be their leader, Silverbolt. What good am I, if I can't help them when they need me most?"

"I panicked too, the first time one of my guys got hurt. Don't be too hard on yourself," Silverbolt told him. "And I didn't have nearly your excuse. Fireflight just twisted one wing a little bit with a bad landing, one of our first flights, nothing serious, but he was yelling and I couldn't calm down. Wheeljack finally had to take me into another room and give me a sedative while they worked on him."

"Really?" Hot Spot asked, looking hopeful.

"Really. I was a total disaster walking. It never gets any easier, but you learn to keep functioning. Well, most of the time," Silverbolt added, wincing as he recalled a not-so-long-ago meltdown in the medbay, when three members of his team had been shot down. "What about the battle? From what I hear you guys were pretty impressive. You'd never seen combat before though, had you?"

"No, the battle was…well, it should have been scary, I guess, but…it was just like…" Hot Spot paused a moment, searching for words. "Like flying might be I guess, if you'd never done it before but once you were in the air you knew exactly what to do." Silverbolt looked down uncomfortably at that, but Hot Spot didn't seem to notice. "I knew how to help, where to send my team, and they were like my own hands almost. Everything just fell into place. Then we formed Defensor and stopped the cannon. We saved the base, and all of those lives. And I know we would…we would all do it again, even with how it turned out."

Hot Spot smoothed his hand over First Aid's helm again, troubled. "I can't bear the thought of losing any of them, of any one them getting hurt again, but at the same time, it's what we were built for. Our purpose. It was like finally being alive, really alive for the first time. I want to keep them all safe in this room forever, and at the same time I can't wait, we all can't wait, to get out there again. To do what we were meant to do. Protect."

Silverbolt understood that tug and pull (keep them safe, answer the call) differently maybe, than Hot Spot. The Aerialbots fought for joy of swift flight in battle, for testing their skills and wits against the Decepticon seekers, for the Autobots and their friends and comrades, but their sense of purpose had grown slowly, not always unwavering, not ingrained in their very programming quite the same way it seemed Hot Spot was describing.

"If we go," Silverbolt said after a long time, knowing Hot Spot would understand what he meant when he said 'go,' "we all go together."

"Yes," Hot Spot said, looking down at First Aid, who stirred again, frowning slightly. "We wouldn't have let him go alone." Hot Spot looked up at Silverbolt again after a moment, expression a little rueful. "Well, this is a cheery conversation. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get so…ah…"

"Deep?" Silverbolt suggested, and Hot Spot laughed, which made Silverbolt smile again (he did a lot of smiling when he was around Hot Spot, Silverbolt was starting to notice).

"I don't know about deep, but whatever it was, let's talk about something else. Tell me about your team."

"My favorite subject," Silverbolt said brightly, attempting for sarcasm but not quite convincing, (because they _were_ his favorite subject, much as he might try to deny it), and so he told Hot Spot about his group of crazy fliers, and they compared combined forms. Superion seemed to be more of a separate entity that came into existence through the combined minds of the Aerialbots, while Hot Spot thought his team's experience as Defensor was somewhat different (based on their admittedly small sample of three successful mergings). Not so much a separate entity as all of the Protectobots blended, with the expertise of whichever component was most needed as the one everyone else synched their thoughts to. Usually that was Hot Spot, but not always, as the moment when First Aid took over proved.

"Took over?" Silverbolt wondered, staring down at the recharging ambulance in surprise, and trying to imagine what would happen if, say, Fireflight took over Superion. A very unsettling thought, that one. "You let him take over?"

"Well, it's not exactly like that," Hot Spot said, scratching at his helm a little. "Uh…yeah, maybe it is, actually. He made the best decision, and…it cost him. But if he hadn't we would have all been dead."

"What happens if you disagree?" Silverbolt asked, curious. From what little he had seen, the Protectobot team dynamic was remarkably turmoil-free. His own team always seemed to be experiencing one sort of drama or another, although they always worked it out in the end.

"Not sure, maybe it just hasn't come up yet. We haven't exactly had a lot of practice," Hot Spot said, laughing. First Aid made a soft, discontented sound, burrowing a little closer to Hot Spot. Hot Spot readjusted the tubing to the energon transfusion line so it wouldn't kink. The smile had not left his face, but his brow had that worried furrow again.

"Does he always recharge like that?" Silverbolt asked, indicating the way First Aid had both of his hands curled into tight balls, tucked under his chin. Hot Spot smiled sadly, expression pensive.

"I didn't know why he did that until the battle, the first time we were Defensor for more than half a breem." Silverbolt nodded. There were very few secrets when you were a gestalt. "We were hurting him, when we first came online. The sensors in his hands are very sensitive, and we would crowd all together to recharge. He's tougher than he looks, actually, but his hands…and he never let us know. I never sensed a hint of it through the gestalt bond until we merged."

A little hand squishing, it didn't seem like a big deal, really, but Silverbolt could see how much it bothered Hot Spot. His own team often drove him crazy, the bond echoing with every little hurt or dilemma, but at the thought of one of them being hurt and not knowing…he suddenly was very grateful for the daily messy clinging drama, exhausting as it could be. (Speaking of which, there was something brewing right now, around the edges of the bond, something to do with Fireflight and Slingshot, and he hoped it didn't involve the Protectobots because the last thing Hot Spot needed right now was more traumatized team members.)

"The others I can keep track of, but First Aid…blocks me somehow, and I don't even notice," Hot Spot continued, trying to explain. "Like when we were all learning to fire pulse rifles, and Ironhide first had us shoot at drones. First Aid shot one, not a half bad shot too, and then…he put his rifle down and wouldn't fire anymore, but he wouldn't tell us why. Ironhide wasn't happy, but Wheeljack convinced him not to push it. He wouldn't ever talk about it, and it didn't seem like a big thing, but Silverbolt…when he shot that drone…the targets were ok, but the drone, for some reason…" Hot Spot's voice broke a little. "He might as well have been shooting straight into his own spark. He was being ripped apart and…he never…he never said a word."

Silverbolt put a hand on Hot Spot's leg, as Hot Spot struggled for composure, knowing all too well what it was like, to be a sparkling with the sparks and processors of four other mechs twining through your very soul.

"He's been blocking me since we were hurt. At first it might have been from the energy blast, it threw everything off, but now…I can't even talk to him, I don't know if he's in pain or scared and I…hate it. Silverbolt, he won't let me in…and I can't…I can't stand it anymore…"

Hot Spot's voice caught in a sob, and at the open sound of it Silverbolt was reminded again how young Hot Spot really was. He had wept like that too, once. Still did, but not where anyone, including his gestaltmates, could see him (they knew of course, but they mostly respected his unspoken desire not to look into those places in his mind too closely. Mostly.)

Silverbolt kept his hand on Hot Spot's leg, letting him know he was there, listening, wishing he could think of some words of wisdom. Privately he made a promise to get Hot Spot out of these quarters soon. Poor kid had been cooped up in here too long, and he obviously wasn't made for just sitting around, injured or not. That was probably half his problem.

First Aid let out a sleepy moan, and Hot Spot stroked his helm again trying to soothe him back into recharge. First Aid refused to be soothed, however, dragging himself up, feeling over Hot Spot's face, then nudged his forehead once against Hot Spot's chin (what? what's wrong?) making distressed, half-awake little sounds.

Hot Spot put both hands on either side of First Aid's helm and pressed both of their foreheads tightly together. "Let me in, please, Aid, just…let me in," he murmured brokenly. First Aid put his hands on Hot Spot's arms and drew back a little. Hot Spot made a low sound of despair, but Silverbolt could almost see First Aid's processor working, even without seeing his face, as First Aid's head lifted suddenly and he huffed air through his vents in mildly exasperated realization. So _that's_ what all of this fuss is about.

First Aid leaned forward and wrapped both arms around his gestalt commander, and Hot Spot sobbed once and buried his head in First Aid's shoulder. They both grew very still, for a long while. Silverbolt sat patiently, until Hot Spot raised his head, still clasping First Aid tightly to him.

"Better?" he asked Hot Spot softly, and Hot Spot nodded and let out a laugh that still had more than a hint of weeping in it.

Hot Spot roughly cleared his vents and said in a voice somewhat hoarse with emotion, "He's ok. He's in more pain than he's been letting on; it still hurts a little when we link through the bond like that, but…he's really ok. He doesn't know why he doesn't want to take energon either, he's just not hungry. I was so afraid he was…giving up, but it's not that at all. He just hides, for some reason, when he's hurt, and he didn't want us to worry. That kind of backfired, didn't it, you little glitch head," Hot Spot murmured down at First Aid with utmost affection.

First Aid scooted up a little higher so he could rest his head in the crook of Hot Spot's shoulder and sighed deeply, and Hot Spot took First Aid's hands in his own larger one, and cradled them safely against his chestplates. Hot Spot smiled at Silverbolt, and Silverbolt smiled back (there he went, smiling again). They talked some more as First Aid recharged peacefully, Hot Spot prodding Silverbolt to tell him more about his team and Silverbolt babbled away, enjoying himself more than he had in a long time. To be able to talk to someone who understood, really understood, it was wonderful.

They were interrupted by a sudden confused onslaught of emotions from both their teams, and Groove and Blades burst through the door to fling themselves against Hot Spot, followed shortly afterwards by Skydive carrying an equally upset Streetwise.

Silverbolt stood up in alarm, taking Streetwise with the idea of handing him down to Hot Spot, but to his surprise Streetwise clamped on to him tightly, shivering but patting his back a little as if Silverbolt were the one that needed comforting.

"Skydive, what the slag happened?" Silverbolt asked, looking at his wingmate incredulously.

"I don't know!" Skydive waved his hands in the air as if proclaiming his innocence. "Slingshot and Fireflight were going after each other again, but they weren't anywhere near the Protectobots," he said in bewilderment. "They just started to freak out, so we brought them back here."

"They hate each other, Hot Spot," Groove got himself together enough to say, systems whirring anxiously. "Fireflight yelled at Slingshot, and Slingshot threw the scrub brush at him and said he could go smelt himself and Fireflight said he hated them all and he ran out, and Slingshot yelled that he hated him too, and then he shoved Air Raid." Groove looked over at Silverbolt with an expression of sparkbroken, innocent despair. His sorrow at having to tell Silverbolt such devastating news was so sincere…and Silverbolt gulped and choked as he tried to hold back a wave of completely inappropriate laughter. It was not funny. It was NOT funny, he kept telling himself firmly, but Skydive's wide optics and firm-pressed, twitching lips were not helping at ALL.

He risked a glance at Hot Spot, to see how he was taking all of this. Hot Spot, having had the benefit of Silverbolt's description (well, more like moaning and complaining if he were honest) of Aerialbot team dynamics, was keeping his cool quite well. Silverbolt could almost see him switch into reassuring leader mode.

"Guys it's all right. They don't really hate each other. They just show off like that because they want Silverbolt give them attention all the time, and he was in here talking to me, so they missed him." Well, that wasn't _exactly_ what he said, Silverbolt thought, but he wasn't going to correct Hot Spot's interpretation any time soon. This was priceless. Skydive's optics grew even wider, if that were possible, and he quickly looked down, crossing his arms tightly across his chestplates as if to keep from exploding. A tiny, strangled noise escaped from his vocalizer. Hot Spot continued explaining. "It's kind of like Ratchet, when he yells…only different," he ended a little uncertainly.

Streetwise stopped patting Silverbolt on the back and looked up him with quavery blue optics. He scrubbed at the optic fluid with one hand in an action so endearingly sparkling-like, that Silverbolt felt his own spark melt, and his amusement subsided (thankfully).

"They don't really hate each other, they just missed you?" Streetwise asked him hopefully, and Silverbolt was able to nod and look Streetwise in the optics and tell him yes, absolutely, they yelled and screamed, but it was just because they wanted him to come and make them apologize and hug, and they most definitely did not hate each other.

"That's a stupid way to get attention," Blades muttered grumpily, and Groove and Streetwise nodded in slightly disapproving and bemused agreement.

Silverbolt felt the amusement rising again, but quashed it down firmly while he sent a firm comm. to Fireflight and Slingshot and helped Streetwise sit down with the rest of his brothers. _You two, get your afts in here now. You are going to apologize and hug each other where the Protectobots can see you._

_What?_ came Slingshot's startled answer. _Silverbolt, you've got to be kidding._

_I'm not going to hug Slingshot_ , Fireflight sent indignantly. _Do you know what he said to me?_

_I don't care! I want you in here in the next quarter breem or you'll be scrubbing out the washracks with your glossae for the next vorn!_

They made it with remarkable alacrity, considering that they were still near the washracks on the other side of the base and they had to come the long way around to avoid the remaining uncleared piles of rubble. They came through the door, Fireflight confused and hurt, Slingshot sullen, and Air Raid trailing behind with an amused smile on his face (probably having been filled in by Skydive).

Slingshot snorted in disdain when he saw the huddled Protectobots. _They were crying?_ he sent, and Silverbolt felt his anger rising.

_Yes, they were crying! They're sparklings, Slingshot. They haven't even reached their first vorn yet and they've just been through a very traumatic battle and their teammate is badly injured, and you and Fireflight scared the sparks out of them with your behavior. They were crying because they truly believe you two hate each other._

_They're really less than a vorn old?_ Fireflight blinked in shock. _But they're smart, Silverbolt. How can they be that young?_

_They're smart sparklings, Fireflight, but they're still sparklings. And they aren't used to arguing and you scared them. So hug Slingshot and say you're sorry._

_He started it,_ Fireflight sent resentfully, but nevertheless he moved over to Slingshot and held out his arms, while the Protectobots all watched with rapt attention.

"I'm sorry, Slingshot," he said. "I know you didn't mean it."

Slingshot grudgingly hugged Fireflight back. "I'm sorry too," he muttered. "It's not your fault you're a total space case."

"Hey!" Fireflight pinched Slingshot hard on his aileron, and Slingshot retaliated by punching him on the arm.

"Enough!" Silverbolt roared, before it could get completely out of hand, and four pairs of Protectobot optics stared up at him in shock. Great.

Air Raid was snickering helplessly somewhere behind him, but Silverbolt's attention was diverted when First Aid, who hadn't so much as twitched the entire time, suddenly twisted out of Hot Spot's grasp with a low cry of pain and staggered to his feet. The energon transfusion unit tumbled down on top of his brothers as the line tore out of his arm. Skydive reached out in an attempt to hold him steady, but he was reluctant to grab the still-healing armor too firmly. First Aid pushed away, weaving and stumbling out through the still open door to their quarters, leaving behind a trail of energon from the disconnected energon drip and the alarmed shouts of his brothers as they struggled to their feet.

Silverbolt was the first to reach him. First Aid was huddled on the floor of the hallway, optics shuttered tightly and hands pressed over auditory sensors. The stampede of panic-stricken Protectobots was not far behind, followed by the questioning calls of his own teammates. First Aid cringed and Silverbolt could hear his pained whimpers faintly under the chaos.

_Quiet!_ Hot Spot commed them all urgently, and suddenly the only sound was First Aid whimper sobbing and the harsh rush of air through his intakes. Hot Spot knelt in front of First Aid and gently put a hand on his shoulder. First Aid unshuttered his optics slightly, blinking painfully at Hot Spot with optics that _saw_ him, smiled shakily, and in a weak voice said "Hi, Hot Spot!…oof." Before Hot Spot could react, First Aid doubled over and made a horrible retching sound. Hot Spot grabbed First Aid by the shoulders and then, as his brother continued to heave as if he was trying to cough up his empty energon tank, looked up at Silverbolt with a desperate, panicked expression.

Silverbolt was feeling rather panicky himself, but when Hot Spot swayed slightly and put a hand to his mouthplates with a puzzled expression, he knew they had to act quickly.

_Skydive, get First Aid to Ratchet,_ he ordered. _Everyone grab a Protectobot and get them separated. Just pick a direction and go!_ Silverbolt heaved Hot Spot to his feet and steered him down the corridor, while Skydive picked up First Aid and rushed past them towards the temporary medbay. He didn't see which way the others went. Silverbolt didn't get very far before Hot Spot gurgled, and, realizing it was a lost cause, he stopped and let the wobbly Protectobot sink to his knees and purge every last drop of energon in his tank. Luckily, it had been awhile since Hot Spot had refueled, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been, but it still wasn't pretty.

Finally the spasms ended, and Silverbolt helped Hot Spot sit down against the wall away from the mess. Hot Spot raised a shaking hand to his head and then looked at Silverbolt in stunned amazement.

"What was that?" he asked, voice very hoarse.

"You just purged your tanks, my friend." Silverbolt told him, patting his shoulder sympathetically. "Welcome to another one of the many joys of being a gestalt. When one purges, you all get to purge. Just wait until you try high grade."

"High grade?" Hot Spot blinked innocently.

Silverbolt laughed. "Nevermind. Ratchet will have my thrusters for corrupting you."

"Aid," Hot Spot said, struggling unsteadily to his feet.

"Skydive took him to Ratchet. Let's wait until we get the all clear, or else you'll just be purging again."

"He talked! Silverbolt, he could see me!" Hot Spot grinned excitedly at Silverbolt, spirits rebounding quickly. Silverbolt sent a quick comm. inquiry to Skydive and smiled at the answer.

"Skydive says Ratchet's still looking him over, but he looks ok, and he's not trying to toss his tank anymore. Apparently it was a reaction to the sensory overload of all of his networks rebooting at once. Let's see how the rest of your team is doing and then we can go see him."

Hot Spot gave an excited bounce, and they went to collect Groove and Blades. Groove had managed not to purge, but poor Air Raid had regurgitated energon all down his side from where Blades had lost it. Fireflight reported that he was still with Streetwise in their quarters, and _would someone please get him to stop because I'm starting to feel queasy too._

With visions of all ten of them purging, Silverbolt sent a plea to Wheeljack, who sent back a startled _Oh dear, Silverbolt, I'm on my way_. They passed him in the corridor on the way to the temporary medbay and he gave them all a wave, vocal indicators flashing as he jogged by.

"Don't worry guys, I'll fix him up in a jiffy. Go see First Aid!"

First Aid was sitting on one of the makeshift berths and the seven of them jostled a bit as they all tried to crowd around it. Ratchet growled at them mildly and then warned, speaking quietly, "Keep the noise down. I'm still trying to get his audios adjusted."

As Ratchet poked around at the side of his head, First Aid smiled and blinked painfully and looked at them all as if he couldn't get enough, and the three Protectobots did much the same.

"Sorry about that, guys," he said apologetically, voice soft and scratchy from disuse. "I didn't mean to make you all purge your tanks. Wasn't that amazing though? I mean, I'd read about tank purging but I never realized it was quite so…"

"Unpleasant?" Hot Spot said, laughing.

"Yeah, reading about it and _doing_ it are two entirely different things, aren't they. Probably good experience for me though," First Aid said philosophically.

"That's just what Streetwise said you'd say," Groove said, laughing softly as well.

"Where is Streetwise?" First Aid wondered, suddenly worried, but the question was answered as Wheeljack arrived, followed by Fireflight carrying Streetwise, who was still looking a little wobbly-about-the-vents.

"Put him over there until we're sure he's over it," Ratchet ordered, waving to the far side of the medbay, and Streetwise looked at them all a little mournfully as Fireflight carried him away.

"Wheeljack, could you work up a temporary visor out of some of the medium density light shield plating?" Ratchet asked. "His auditory sensors are normalizing, but his optics are still overreacting, and I'm not seeing any signs of improvement."

"Sure thing, Ratch. How're ya doing kiddo?" First Aid smiled at Wheeljack brightly as he took some quick measurements and patted him fondly on the helm. "Primus, having you functional again like this, it seemed too much to even hope for. So good to have you back kid."

"Better keep your optics shuttered for now," Ratchet told him, and First Aid nodded, squinting painfully, but just before he closed them his gaze caught Silverbolt's. Silverbolt winked and he rotated his left shoulder a few times. First Aid's optic ridges rose in recognition and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but Ratchet put his hands over Aid's optics and said "shut 'em, or I'm welding them closed."

After a few breems, Streetwise was finally deemed safe to join the rest of his gestaltmates, and the Aerialbots stepped back a bit, watching as the Protectobots took turns snuggling their brother in quiet celebration, and Groove tried to convince Wheeljack to make him a visor just like First Aid's. "Groove, no. You don't need a visor," Hot Spot was saying firmly.

"I'm sorry," Slingshot said gruffly, and they all turned to look at him.

"What?" said Silverbolt blankly.

"Fireflight. I'm sorry," Slingshot repeated, looking annoyed. "You're still a space case, but I shouldn't have said it like that. Actually, I kind of like it that you're a space case."

Slingshot grunted as he suddenly had his arms full of high velocity Fireflight. He grumbled and rolled his optics, but Silverbolt saw his arms squeezing Fireflight tightly back.

"The things you do to get my attention," Silverbolt said, letting out an exaggerated sigh.

Slingshot scowled at them all over Fireflight's back, and Silverbolt grinned and Air Raid and Skydive snickered as they gave him congratulatory punches on the arms.

"Nice one, 'Bolt."

"Score one for the team commander!"


End file.
